


Going Down

by ThayerKerbasy



Series: The Misadventures of Growley and Squirrel [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Demon Dean, Homophobia, M/M, Mark of Cain, POV Crowley, Post-Episode: s09e23 Do You Believe In Miracles?, Pre-Episode: s10e01 Black, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-14 18:03:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14141547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThayerKerbasy/pseuds/ThayerKerbasy
Summary: It was supposed to be a fun road trip so Dean could debauch his way across the Upper Midwest.  Unfortunately, Crowley wasn't having nearly as much fun as Dean.





	Going Down

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you to my wonderful beta, [Grey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510) for pointing out everywhere I went wrong so I could make it better.

Phone in one hand, a glass of Scotch in the other, Crowley toyed with the idea of reading his email for the first time in days. He had been studiously ignoring all attempts at contact from his subjects while with Dean, but for the moment he was at loose ends, leaving him with no excuse to ignore his phone. His notifications glared an accusation in the bar’s dim light.

With Cowboy Christmas in their rearview mirror, Dean had driven past midnight, reaching the first town on their to do list at approximately an hour before last call. Not to be deterred, Dean dropped Crowley off at his accommodation of choice, requesting that Crowley book them a room while he attempted to score. Had it been anyone else, Crowley would have incinerated them on the spot merely for suggesting it. Of course, the situation with Dean was…complicated.

With another glance at the email button, Crowley downed his Scotch, then poured himself another. He was stuck drinking in the hotel’s conference room because all the bars were closed and — indignity atop indignities — Dean had demanded to be left alone with his dalliance. That said, after meeting the girl, Crowley wasn’t inclined to argue. Ten seconds of interaction with the witless floozy on Dean’s arm was enough to convince Crowley that he wanted nothing to do with Dean’s plans for the night.

As he stared at the phone’s display, a text message alert flashed on the screen. Even that brief glimpse was enough to tell him it was one of the security thugs he’d brought with him to the Black Spur for appearances and had regretted ever since. Unlike your average crossroads demon, most of the black-eyed bastards weren’t capable of discretion if their lives depended on it.

Last he saw, his security detail was drinking, playing pool, and trying to further corrupt the locals for fun. He would have said there was no reason they needed to get in touch with him, but Crowley had been King of Hell for four years, and in that time he had been privy to the most petty demands on his time. Honestly, sometimes his job was pure hell.

Still, the longer he stared at the screen, the more he worried about what could have possibly gone wrong. One of the idiots might have decided to steal a baby to eat, rousing the town’s ire and threatening to expose them for the demons they were, which Crowley had expressly forbidden. It was possible they might have harmed one or more of the humans to which Dean had taken a liking. Worse, what if Moose showed up?

Crowley tapped the screen to open his text messages. None of his subjects would have emailed for the most urgent of emergencies, so best to start with the texts. The screen filled with recent texts from a variety of demons, business associates, clients, and one from Bear, the latter a highly detailed description of the things he hoped might happen the following weekend.

None of the other texts were anywhere near as interesting as Bear’s. The business texts that required a response were easily dealt with, hardly worthy of his time, and the texts from demons were generally ridiculous groveling in an attempt to receive some sort of promotion or reward which they didn’t deserve. His security detail had gotten bored and wanted to know if extreme boredom warranted breaking the rules he had set. He replied to the last one with, “No. Go to Hell. Go directly to Hell. Do not pass GO, do not collect $200. If you obey without question, I won’t flay you alive when I return.”

It was with a heavy sigh that he tapped the email button. The things that got emailed to him covered a broad spectrum, ranging from the petty things not deserving of his attention to important notifications from his research team. He deleted the former so he could focus on the latter.

Guthrie had located Castiel and was keeping tabs on him, which apparently wasn’t difficult due to the fact that hot wings wasn’t feeling so hot. It was no less than Crowley expected, what with the whole stolen grace thing. He complimented Guthrie on a job well done and told him to maintain surveillance only.

There was the usual array of people asking for favours. The witch who kept his meatsuit in good condition wanted someone eliminated. Crowley sent an email to Guthrie telling him to assign someone to investigate the fellow. As long as the target wasn’t vital to Hell’s interests, he was inclined to grant the request. He was rather attached to his chosen meatsuit and didn’t want to risk alienating the one responsible for its maintenance.

His intelligence agency — the members of which, when they were alive, had once been spies in various international intelligence agencies — had tracked down a few more of Abaddon’s loyalists and were awaiting orders. The information sparked a thought, which he turned over in his head before replying. Rather than have the traitors executed immediately, he ordered his people to send him any available information on them.

Presumably overjoyed at being addressed personally by their king, the people Crowley contacted sent swift replies. He only gave them a cursory glance until his spies reported back. They didn’t have many names attached to phone numbers, but they were able to provide him with the number and phone records for one going by their meatsuit’s name.

Crowley hesitated only briefly before adding Drew Nealy to his contacts list, then sent him a text. “New phone, same mission. Reports of elder Winchester in company of usurper. Justice must be served. Will text when more info available. Long live Abaddon.”

Feeling a little better about the state of his phone notifications, Crowley sipped at his Scotch and swiped more superfluous notifications off his screen. He finished the glass and was about to pour himself another when his phone chimed with a new notification. The demon currently known as Drew Nealy replied to his text. “The fake king still thinks he deserves to rule Hell bt he needs a human to do his dirty work. Tell me where to find them n I’ll avenge r queen. Long live Abaddon!”

Crowley had a glimmer of an idea, but executing it held the potential for disaster. Best to sit on it for now. He left Drew Nealy to marinate for the time being. With business taken care of and Dean regrettably occupied, Crowley could spare a few minutes to facetime Juliet so she wouldn’t get lonely.

*

The next morning saw Dean and Crowley on the road again, on their way to Wisconsin, though 11:30 was only technically morning. As Dean had planned, he and his lady of the evening debauched in both the hotel room and the pool. Crowley had gotten tired of waiting and barged in, which hadn’t exactly bothered Dean, but the girl had seemed almost relieved. Pretending to be irritated with the girl, Crowley had sent her packing, by the end of which Dean was passed out.

In the light of day, it was like nothing had ever happened. Dean didn’t mention the aborted booty call and certainly didn’t apologize to Crowley for treating him poorly. Rolling out of bed, he went directly to the lobby and complained because, according to Dean, the complimentary breakfast should have been available until checkout time.

The poor, beleaguered desk clerk apologized and offered a healthy breakfast travel bag as an alternative. Dean declined, instead demanding to know where he could get some bacon, which led to going through the nearest drive thru for takeout before they hit the road. It was not at all how Crowley would have chosen to start his day, but it was apparently what he had signed up for.

Traveling along I-94, for a little while Dean seemed like his old self. The miles rolled by to a classic rock soundtrack with Dean on lead vocals. Burger wrappers and soft drink cups tossed in the back seat, littering the once-pristine classic car, were the only indication that things were not as they used to be. Crowley gave up on trying to engage Dean in conversation, choosing instead to drum his fingers on the dash along with the music.

They stopped for snacks at the very next town. Apparently, Dean needed beef jerky to drive. Crowley opted to stay in the car, checking the notifications on his phone while Dean was busy. There was another text from Drew Nealy, pledging his loyalty to the cause and eagerly requesting an update. Crowley left the message unanswered.

Dean returned bearing not only beef jerky, but also candy and a six pack of beer, the latter of which he stashed in the cooler on the back seat. He didn’t say a word to Crowley, only dropped the bag of candy on the seat between them. Peeling open the package, Dean stuffed a piece of jerky in his mouth before starting up the car and pulling out of the parking lot.

Pocketing his phone, Crowley said, “Well? Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Uh huh,” replied Dean, patting the open package.

“Good,” said Crowley. “Perhaps now we can put this state behind us and move on to better things.”

Still chewing, Dean grunted in agreement and turned up the music. Apparently it was going to be a Metallica day. Not that Crowley had anything against Metallica, he simply would have preferred something entirely different.

It wasn’t long before Dean was singing along with the music again, except with a mouthful of half-chewed jerky. As crude as it was, for once it felt like the old Dean was back. The sun was shining, Dean Winchester was singing, and all felt right with the world. Crowley resolved to enjoy himself.

They had only traveled a short distance when they began seeing signs for nearby towns. One in particular caught Dean’s eye. “Hey, check it out: Fergus Falls. Sound familiar?”

Crowley had ample practice in biting his tongue. “No. Should it?”

“Oh, we are so stopping there,” said Dean. “Let’s go see what kind of place Fergus Falls is.”

“Oh goody.” With a strictly internal sigh, Crowley dug out his phone and set about looking for a place to stay the night. Dean wasn’t going to want to leave without sampling everything the place had to offer.

*

Two hours — and Metallica albums — later found Crowley seated at the bar of an establishment that proclaimed itself “the finest old world style restaurant in Fergus Falls”, which was hardly an accomplishment, considering it was the only old world style restaurant in Fergus Falls. There was a perfectly ordinary bar and grill they could have visited, but no, Dean wanted “the real Fergus Falls experience”.

The remains of a wing platter sat as abandoned as the seat on his left. When Dean had learned that it was karaoke night, he wasted no time in signing himself up. Crowley was done with karaoke. Dean had made his purpose that evening quite clear, and Crowley was in no mood to make a spectacle of himself. Instead, he ate waffle fries, drank half-decent beer, and waited for Dean to decide he’d had enough.

When Dean’s song of choice started, Crowley groaned. Of all the one hit wonders to butcher, he probably should have expected "Mambo No. 5", and yet it was still a surprise when the poor bloody wreck of a song assaulted his ears. It was a moderately entertaining song on its own, but no song — no matter how good — was safe from Dean Winchester.

By the time he hit the chorus, the mood in the pub had already deteriorated to boos and jeers. There was no saving Dean from himself when it came to karaoke though, so Crowley popped another waffle fry into his mouth and waited for the other shoe to drop.

With a smirk on his luscious lips, Dean launched into the chorus. Each time he hit a woman’s name in the song, he pointed to a woman in the room, probably hoping to luck into getting someone’s name right. The only thing the poor bastard succeeded in doing was alienating the entire room. It was a glorious train wreck.

(Un?)fortunately, Dean didn’t get to finish the song. As he winked and grinned his way through the second verse, several rather powerfully-built men converged on the stage with the apparent intent to cut his act short. The jeers became cheers for the audience’s attempted saviours.

Dean ignored them all until one tried to wrench the microphone away. That man received a knuckle sandwich from Dean’s free hand. It seemed that was all it took to convince two other men to jump him, prompting the bouncer to leave his post by the bar.

Crowley called over the bartender and paid the bill. He hadn’t wanted anything to do with the bloody Irish pub — especially since Dean kept using it as an excuse to mock Crowley, despite the fact that he wasn’t even Irish — but since they were about to be evicted from it, he wished they could have stayed longer. He never even got to finish his fries.

By the time he was done paying, Dean had wrought havoc on stage. One man was unconscious on the floor and two others tried to protect themselves while nursing injuries. The bouncer was in the best shape of the four, with only a bloody nose. While Crowley watched, the bouncer managed to grab Dean from behind, eliciting encouraging shouts from the non-combatants in the room — those who hadn’t already left — and allowing the other two to scramble away.

The bouncer only held him a moment before Dean managed to wrench free, a smile on his lips that failed to reach his eyes. The significant other of one of the injured men was already on their phone, presumably calling the police. What would have been a minor disturbance only a week or two ago had become a much larger problem. Things were accelerating much faster than Crowley had anticipated.

Pocketing his phone, Crowley quashed his disappointment — time and more to deal with that later — and strode over to where Dean was toying with his prey, letting the bouncer almost grab him before striking back. At their feet, the original instigator stirred, groaning. Crowley nudged the fellow a bit further out of the way, rolling him with one foot.

Undoubtedly, the bouncer would have easily defused the situation if he had been dealing with an ordinary human. Somehow Crowley thought it unlikely that his training had covered what to do when faced with a Knight of Hell. Crowley watched the man double over with a soft groan, struggling to catch the breath Dean’s fist had driven from him.

It had gone on long enough. Standing at the edge of the slightly raised stage, Crowley cleared his throat to get Dean’s attention. The black eyes that turned towards him were entirely demonic, and had nothing in common with the human he had once been.

Forcing his face into a casually bored expression, Crowley indicated the door with a twitch of his head. “You gonna wait around for the local 5-0 or shall we move on to greener pastures?” When Dean hesitated, he continued, “The song is over, your audience is no longer interested, and your intended conquests have fled. Shall we?”

With a shrug, Dean delivered one final calculated blow. The bouncer crumpled to the floor in a bloody heap. Flexing the fingers of his right hand, Dean then stepped off the stage and crushed his original opponent’s fingers beneath the heel of his boot on his way out. From the corner of the room came a muffled sob.

Crowley held the door open for Dean and followed him out, the sound of a police siren audible only to him at the moment, but growing nearer. It wasn’t that Crowley was at all afraid of mortal law enforcement — it wouldn’t have been the first time he made inconveniences disappear — but another confrontation would hardly help Dean to rediscover his waning humanity. Best to make themselves scarce.

Seated once more in Dean’s Impala, Crowley was pleased to note Dean drove back to the interstate. Of course they needed to get clear of Fergus Falls before someone came looking for them. Quietly ignoring the Metallica still playing through the car’s speakers, Crowley took his phone out of his pocket to cancel their hotel reservation for the evening. Waiting on the screen was the unanswered message from Drew Nealy from earlier that day.

He glanced once more over at Dean. It was early evening and the light from the oncoming cars painted Dean’s face, illuminating his perfect features save for the few tiny shadows, some of which rested in the creases lining his forehead. Those little lines were from a lifetime of worry and care, earned through years of hardship. It was so very…human.

Dean’s eyes darted to the side and caught him staring. “Your town sucks. I think you need to make it up to me.”

No part of the evening had been Crowley’s fault, but it was obvious what Dean wanted, and in no way was Crowley inclined to say no. With a small nod, he acquiesced, returning the phone to his pocket. “I think something can be arranged.”

The car pulled off the interstate at the next rest stop and parked in the space farthest from the lone building. Crowley’s phone sat in his pocket, forgotten.

*

Hours later, they eventually got back underway, with Dean sated and Crowley left unfulfilled. Dean hadn’t given him permission to finish, citing that as part of his “punishment” for Fergus Falls. Crowley told himself it was all in the interest of keeping Dean happy and by his side.

A couple hours after sunrise, they crossed the state line into Wisconsin, their path taking them directly through a small city. They could have kept going, but Dean said he was bored of driving. Once he was off the interstate, Dean pulled over into an empty lot and tapped in a search on his phone.

“Alright, here’s the deal,” said Dean. “I’m gonna go to Dick’s Bar and Grill and have a beer or three. Why don’t you see about gettin’ us a room somewhere.”

Crowley didn’t even bother to argue. “You chose the bar because of the name, didn’t you?”

With a mirthless chuckle, Dean replied, “Yeah. I wanna see how many dicks are there.”

The moment the search finished on Crowley’s phone, he teleported out, appearing in the shadows behind Dick’s Bar and Grill. “I should probably warn them there’s a giant dick coming,” he muttered to himself.

Looking over the results of his search, he noted a hotel not far from the interstate, making it ideal for their purposes. And yet, he refrained from reserving a room. Dick’s didn’t have karaoke, but it was early in the day, hours before they could even check into a hotel, and Crowley wasn’t feeling optimistic about the prospect of staying in town until Dean felt like sleeping.

To cover all possibilities, he called the hotel and confirmed that check in time was 3 pm, though early check in was possible if he prepaid. Rooms were easily available for that evening and he could have his choice of suites if he was interested.

Thanking the receptionist, he said he’d consider it, then hung up. The idea of sharing a suite, just him and Dean at a decent hotel, was a pleasant thought, and one which entertained him all the way into the bar, where he sat and ordered himself a cocktail. He had just conjured up a delightful fantasy when the door opened and Dean strode in.

Planting himself on the bar stool to Crowley’s left, Dean flagged down the bartender, which wasn’t exactly difficult at that early hour. “Gimme whatever you got on tap and a plate of nachos.”

The bartender was already moving to grab a pitcher when he abruptly stopped. “I’m sorry, sir, but nachos are on the lunch menu and we’re still serving breakfast.”

Sipping his mimosa, Crowley watched as Dean leaned over the bar and grabbed the bartender by the front of his shirt. “Do I look like I give a fuck?” said Dean, low and menacing. “I want nachos for breakfast. Therefore, they are a fucking breakfast food. Capisce?”

The bar was quiet so early in the morning, with few customers and certainly no bouncer. The bartender’s eyes focused on Dean for a moment before he nodded, apparently coming to the conclusion that being amenable was the best way to remain in one piece. He kept his eyes on Dean even after he was released. “It might take a minute, I’ll have to talk to the cook.”

Dean smiled a thin smile. “You do that.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow but refrained from comment. If Dean had been trying to convince the fellow to tell him where to find the latest incognito vampire or werewolf, his actions would have been entirely in character for him. So really, all the Mark had done was to skew his priorities a little. Was it truly such a bad thing if Dean was a bit more selfish? There was a small part of him that wanted to answer, “Yes,” but it was easily silenced.

A soft mutter of conversation drifted over from what must have been the restaurant side, where families enjoyed Sunday brunch and talked about inconsequential things, all while trying to keep little Tommy from running amok and yelling at the top of his bored little lungs. Crowley wondered whether Dean had ever attended a Sunday brunch when he wasn’t working a case. Probably not. Mortal Dean had hangups about anything soft, so while he probably would have loved to have dragged his entire mismatched friend squad out for Sunday brunch, the closest he had likely come was the complimentary buffet at certain hotels.

New Dean certainly had no such issues anymore. He also had no desire to sit at Sunday brunch and eat eggs while discussing inanities with his brother and their friends. Were they in the same room, little Tommy would have undoubtedly been silenced by Dean’s own two hands, traumatizing the child for life. Not so long ago, that thought wouldn’t have bothered Crowley.

He shied away from the implications of that. It was probably remnants of the human blood in his system. Sure, his last injection had been months before, but nobody had ever documented the long term effects of human blood on a demon. What other possible answer was there?

While Crowley was lost in his musings, Dean cracked open peanuts, leaving the shell fragments all over the bartop and floor. When the bartender returned with a full pitcher of beer and a tall glass, Dean smiled and swept the discarded bits off to one side with his hand. Pouring himself a glass, he indicated Crowley with a curt nod and said, “He’s paying.” 

Crowley rolled his eyes, but dug two twenties from his pocket and set them on the bar. Glancing at the fragments of peanut shell, the bartender snatched up the bills and visibly swallowed any intended complaint. Once the fellow had gone, Crowley had the words of a reprimand on his tongue, but like the bartender, bit them back. There was nothing to be gained and everything to lose by calling out Dean on his behaviour.

Crowley had hoped that being a demon would open Dean’s eyes to the reality of Crowley’s lot in life, as it were. Instead, Dean had lost everything that made him better than the unimaginative fools who called Hell home. Crowley was beginning to wonder if Dean was corrupted beyond saving.

Dean’s voice broke through his introspection. “C’mon, grab your drink. Let’s go kill some time. I’ll even let you choose: darts or pool?”

“Rack the balls then,” Crowley replied. “I don’t think anyone in your general vicinity would be safe if we were to play darts.”

With an amused smirk, Dean selected a pool table and set about racking the balls with his forearms, a move which instantly brought Crowley back to that bar from a couple months before where Dean had unknowingly proved his loyalties. The contrast wasn’t immediately visible between that springtime Dean and the Dean he had become, but the more time passed, the more apparent it became. Mimosa in hand, Crowley selected a cue and settled in for a long morning.

The first couple games were nothing special. Since the goal wasn’t to flatter Dean’s ego, but rather to keep him occupied, Crowley played to the best of his demonically-enhanced ability. A server came by with Dean’s nachos, which he set on a nearby table with his beer to pick at whenever it wasn’t his turn.

As they played, more people began to trickle in, some relocating from the restaurant to the bar and some coming directly from the parking lot. The latter group all seemed to know each other, though none arrived together, and they each individually sized up Dean and Crowley before going about the serious business of getting sloshed.

Crowley knew how territorial local yokels could be about their favourite watering holes. He idly wondered whether Dean still cared about passing for human and if he could get away with telekinetically breaking a few bones. In the interest of not finding out, he didn’t return any of their challenging stares.

Dean, on the other hand, seemed to sense when someone was looking at him. Without missing a beat, he went from no-nonsense to flirty player, sliding his hand suggestively down the pool cue. As he bent over to line up his shot, he batted bedroom eyes at Crowley and poked his tongue out between plush pink lips.

It had been weeks since Dean had run off with Crowley for their own personal vacation, and not once had he seen such a seduction aimed at him. Crowley groaned inwardly — something he seemed to be doing a lot lately — and told his willy not to get its hopes up.

Careful to keep his expression politely friendly, Crowley asked, “And what, pray tell, do you think you’re starting?”

“What?” replied Dean. “Thought this was what you wanted.”

On that last word, he took his shot, the cue ball tapping its intended target deftly into the hole in front of Crowley. Dean smirked and blew him a kiss.

Moving out of the way so Dean could take another shot, Crowley glanced over at the bar. The locals seemed none too pleased with Dean’s display. They quarreled amongst themselves, gesturing at Dean and Crowley between swigs of cheap beer that Crowley could unfortunately smell from across the room.

Dean missed his shot by such a wide margin, it could have only been deliberate. When the cue ball rolled past, he actually pursed his lips in an exaggerated pout. It was obvious what he intended. Crowley created and discarded half a dozen plans while pretending to consider the balls on the table. 

“You and I both know what you’re playing at here,” Crowley temporized, “so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t promise what you won’t deliver.”

When Crowley leaned over to make his shot, Dean pressed himself against Crowley’s side and whispered, “Who says I won’t?”

As he straightened up to walk away, Dean delivered a swat to Crowley’s arse which he shamefully wasn’t expecting. Startled, Crowley jerked forward impulsively, knocking his cue into the cue ball and forfeiting his turn. Without even looking over, he could already hear the angry words he’d been hearing, in one form or another, for centuries. 

“Faggots,” said one.

“Won’t stand for that sort in _our_ bar,” said another.

“Fuckin’ queers,” said the third. “I don’t give a damn if it’s legal, it ain’t right.”

Dean smiled. Spreading his arms wide, he called over to the men at the bar, “Howdy fellas. Seems my partner here is having a hard time keeping it up. Anyone care to come play with my balls?” 

For someone who claimed he wanted to pass as human, Dean behaved far too much like a demon. Not even the respectable sort of demon, but rather the black-eyed bastards he used to spike indiscriminately. Crowley had the increasingly unsettling feeling that he’d been traveling with one of his aggressively empty-headed subjects.

For at least one of the men, Dean’s invitation was the last straw. There was a certain amount of encouragement from those not sufficiently offended as to join in as the footsteps behind him told Crowley that two men approached. They likely thought two was more than enough for a couple of queers. There was a part of Crowley that looked forward to seeing them learn otherwise.

Before either of the men could get too close, Crowley turned to face them. Both were scruffy men in plaid shirts and baseball caps — beer paraphernalia for the one and Green Bay Packers logos on the other. They were the sort of fellows who attended hunters’ gatherings, truck stops, and bars alike, rather like how Bobby Singer might have been if he had been a raging homophobe.

They stopped a couple paces away. Cracking his knuckles, the sports enthusiast said, “We don’t appreciate people like you in our bar. I think you’d better leave.”

“People like us?” said Dean. “You saying there’s an upper limit on the IQ allowed in this bar and that we don’t make the cut? Or is it a reverse dress code where you have to wear stupid logos? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I’ve got an Astroglide t-shirt in my car if you don’t mind us being smarter than you.”

“No, it’s ‘cause you’re fuckin’ queers,” replied the walking beer advertisement.

There was no escaping it. Everyone involved wanted to fight, and if Crowley were to attempt to prevent it, all he would accomplish would be to alienate Dean. That said, Crowley didn’t exactly try very hard to find an alternate solution.

“Well,” said Crowley, “the place is called Dick’s. There’s a certain something implied there. Plus, I would think some understanding should be granted given that you all look like bears and they’re serving brunch in the other room.”

Dean chuckled and stepped in closer to the pair. “Say Crowley, think these dicks secretly want some dick?”

“Screw this,” said the Packers fan, leaning in menacingly. “We don’t hafta stand here and let you badmouth us.”

“Yeah, fuck this!” said Beer Logo as he threw the first punch.

Taking a single step back, Crowley was easily able to dodge Beer Logo’s clumsy punch, but that seemed to open the door for Packers Fan, who shoved Dean. Since Dean had only been waiting for one of them to take the bait, it was with a wicked grin that Dean fought back.

From behind the bar, the bartender shouted, “Take it outside or I’m calling the cops.”

Crowley had no intention of robbing Dean of the fight he so obviously wanted, so when Beer Logo turned to gauge the bartender’s seriousness, Crowley nobly refrained from taking advantage of his distraction. Instead, he watched Dean and Packers Fan trade blows, the latter receiving far more than he dished out.

Whatever it was that Beer Logo saw apparently convinced him that either the police wouldn’t be called or that they already had been and that he might as well make the best of it, because he spun back around with a grin on his face and his fist already in motion. Again, Crowley easily dodged the untrained brawler’s swing. He didn’t bother to conceal his amusement either, smirking at the fellow who was thrown off balance because he had expected his fist to connect with Crowley’s face.

Beer Logo frowned. “What the fuck, hold still or fight back, you fuckin’ faggot!”

In return, Crowley gave him a smug grin and crooked a finger to invite him to go again. It was actually entertaining to let him try, and he could dodge slightly tipsy punches all day if he had to.

Beside him, Dean apparently realized that Crowley was saving the other one for him, because he stopped toying with his opponent and finally knocked him out cold in a single blow. Dean then paused a moment to watch Beer Logo’s uncoordinated efforts while Crowley stepped back to avoid another punch. Crowley very much wanted to tell Dean to get on with it, but he strongly suspected that he wouldn’t appreciate Dean’s response.

Waiting until Beer Logo stepped forward to try again, Dean tapped the fellow on the shoulder. Whirling around, Beer Logo was still trying to sort out what was going on when Dean’s fist smashed into his face. A spatter of blood — and what was possibly a tooth — splattered against the green felt surface of the pool table.

There came the sound of wood on wood from chair legs scraping across the floor, and more angry muttering as more homophobes got to their feet. Dean huffed a laugh as he drove his booted foot into Beer Logo’s ribs with an audible crack, then beckoned over his friends with one finger. 

If it weren’t for Dean, Crowley would have left. Even so, it was incredibly tempting to simply snap his fingers and be done with them all. It was obvious, though, that the Mark was responsible for Dean’s aggression, and it needed to be sated. With a sigh, Crowley prepared to occupy another brawler until Dean could get around to taking care of him.

*

They left a heap of broken, groaning men on the bar floor, and hit the road with sirens ringing in their ears. By the time the police spoke to the bartender and coaxed statements out of the men — before sending them off to the hospital — Dean and Crowley were long gone. Dean drove with a self-satisfied smile on his face.

Ignoring the Motörhead that Dean insisted on playing, Crowley scrolled through his messages. Idiotic, pathetic failures, the whole lot of them. It was one of those days when Crowley wondered why he even bothered. Hard on the heels of that thought was the reminder that abdicating his throne would result in Crowley losing the majority of his power, one of the aggro morons taking control, and likely dodging assassins for the rest of his days.

Right. That’s why what he was doing was so important.

Scrolling past the pedantic lowlifes and the whinging suckups, Crowley looked back through his messages until he got to the last message from Drew Nealy, sent the day before. Hesitating only briefly, Crowley opened the message and typed a reply. “Tracked traitors to WI. Get in position and be ready to strike.”

It was all too clear, Dean needed to kill someone. It so happened Crowley had someone who needed killing. He just had to figure out a way to broach the subject with Dean.

Crowley put his phone away, ignoring the rest of the messages. Work could wait. He needed to think, and at the moment he had no other demands on his time, which made it ideal for thinking, even with Dean providing dreadfully off-key vocals. The scenery flew by without Crowley really seeing it.

They stopped at a Gas n Sip so Dean could buy snacks again. As usual, Crowley stayed in the car, though unlike previous stops, he didn’t bother checking his phone. If Drew Nealy had responded, he could wait like everyone else. In the back of his mind, he idly noted that Dean seemed to stop at the first available stop every time they hit the road, whether it be for beer, snacks, or other forms of gratification.

Objectively, Crowley’s problem was rather simple. Dean needed to kill, there was someone who needed to be killed, two birds, one stone, etcetera. Were he dealing with original flavour Dean, the only problem would have been Dean’s reluctance to kill a human, which wouldn’t have been a problem at all upon revealing that Drew Nealy was quite dead and being used as a demon’s meatsuit.

Suggesting the idea to new Dean was another matter entirely. New Dean did whatever struck his fancy without a care in the world, and was far less likely to listen to suggestions. Even if he was willing to listen, the idea of anything that smacked of effort on his part was likely to discourage him. Crowley was going to have to make Dean think it was his idea.

Still lost in thought, he most certainly did not jump when Dean opened the car door and dropped a six-pack of beer on the seat. Having apparently abandoned any pretense of appearances, once seated, Dean cracked open a can and drove with one hand on the wheel and the other holding a beer.

Crowley waited until they were underway once more before venturing, “So. Merely a matter of curiosity, but have we discovered the upper limit of your new alcohol tolerance levels, or are we experimenting today?”

Ejecting the Motörhead cassette tape with one finger on his beer hand, Dean tuned the radio until he settled on a ‘90s alt rock station. Giving Crowley a pointed glance, he drank a swig of his beer. “Are we demons or aren’t we? You worry too much.”

“One of us has to,” Crowley replied under his breath.

If Dean heard, he gave no sign, instead drinking again, perking up when a new song came on. “I remember when this came out. C’mon Crowley, you gotta know this one.”

Dean cheerfully sang along, gesturing with his beer until Crowley joined in.

_I’m high but I’m grounded_  
_I’m sane but I’m overwhelmed_  
_I’m lost but I’m hopeful baby_  
_What it all comes down to_  
_Is that everything's gonna be fine fine fine_  
_‘Cause I’ve got one hand in my pocket_  
_And the other one’s giving a high five_  


When Dean’s beer was gone, he crumpled the can with one hand and tossed it over his shoulder onto the back seat. The last droplets of beer jostled loose, sprinkling the car’s interior with that classic Schultz fragrance. Crowley wanted to wince, but was careful to keep his thoughts to himself.

Reaching into his pocket, he touched his phone, but left it there. It was probably his last hope. It had to work. Everything was going to be fine, because he refused to accept the alternative.

*

It was mid-afternoon when they reached Amherst Junction, and given that they had already driven past the largest city in the county, Dean was apparently in the mood for that small town feel. They drove past the sign reading “Welcome to Amherst Junction, population 375", which prompted Dean to tell Crowley to find a bar and a motel. So, business as usual.

Crowley’s search turned up two little bed and breakfast style lodgings in the tiny village, but they were spoiled for choice with at least ten different bars if they were willing to drive a few more minutes to the next town. After checking the availability of a room — Amherst Inn wanted him to make a reservation, but would rent to them if they paid in full on arrival — Crowley laid out Dean’s options, all the while wondering when he had stopped getting a say in their itinerary.

When presented with an abundance of choices, some of which were legitimately classy establishments, Dean opted for the oldest, cheapest dive. The sign out front advertised Junction Bar in faded paint which looked like it belonged to an abandoned building. Still, the neon beer signs reassured customers that they were indeed still open for business.

The interior was cluttered in the way of all old, homegrown establishments. Chalkboards advertised the specials, photographs and knick knacks filled the empty spaces, and strands of fairy lights twinkled on the ceiling even in July. It was a bar that felt lived in.

When they walked through the door, the bartender looked up from where she was polishing the old worn surface of her bar. Her silvering hair was tied back, and she wore a Janis Joplin t-shirt. If Crowley cared to pinpoint her age, he probably could have, but that would have meant actually caring.

The change in Dean was subtle, but obvious to Crowley. Stopping several feet from the bar to read the daily specials on the chalkboard, Dean then walked over to where the bartender had resumed her polishing. “Pardon ma’am, but are you still serving lunch, or are you on to dinner now?”

The woman set down her cloth and gave Dean a once-over. “Can’t say I’ve seen you two ‘round here. You new to stay or just passing through?”

“I don’t expect we’ll be here past tomorrow. We saw your… quaint little bar, and we just had to stop, didn’t we, Crowley?”

Crowley, who had been standing just behind Dean and waiting for him to sit, replied, “Oh, yes, of course. We simply could not resist this bit of small town charm.”

Dean flashed a smile and claimed a seat across from her. The bartender, apparently won over by his charming manner, returned his smile. “Well, ain’t that just sweet of you to say. I think we’re technically still serving lunch, but dinner starts in ‘bout an hour if you’d rather have that. So what can I get for yous guys today?”

“Lunch sounds good,” said Dean. “I’ll have the wing platter and a beer and he’ll have a basket of fries and something fruity.”

The bartender raised her eyebrows at Crowley in silent inquiry, to which Crowley shrugged and nodded in response. He might have chosen something else for himself, but it honestly didn’t matter.

“Okie dokie, we’ll get started on that right quick,” said the bartender with a nod, hastening her steps to the kitchen.

As she left the room, Dean smirked. “Okie dokie.”

The next two hours felt like a trip to bizarro world. He had been so sure the old Dean was gone forever, and while it wasn’t exactly the old Dean, it certainly felt like the Mark of Cain had loosened its all-consuming grip. They ate their food, drank their drinks, and made casual conversation with the bartender — Stella, according to her name tag — until other customers began to trickle in for the dinner hour. It felt almost like old times.

Nursing his third beer and regaling them with Led Zeppelin trivia, Dean stopped mid-sentence when a small group of twenty-something women walked in. His eyes followed them to their table, and when they sat, he stood. “If you’ll excuse me, something just came up.”

Stella frowned. “Wait, what?” 

Dean didn’t bother to respond, but Stella was capable of connecting the dots. When she realized where Dean was going, her mouth compressed in a thin line, adding a slight head shake when he pulled up a chair to sit with them. 

Crowley sighed. Dean wanting to sit and talk had been too good to be true. Crowley had no one to blame for his disappointment but himself. After the past few weeks, it should have been obvious that Dean was only killing time until a possible conquest walked through the door, and whether conquest meant easily-provoked fistfight or willing shag, it still left Crowley abandoned at the bar.

“So,” said Stella, breaking through his introspection, “he do that often, or no?”

Averting his eyes from where Dean was sweet talking the ladies, Crowley found Stella watching him with a sympathetic look in her eyes, like every other decent bartender. Whether she was just doing her job or was genuinely interested, he felt like indulging her. “More often than not, lately. It was supposed to be he and I together, doing whatever we wanted, but now he’s doing his own thing and he doesn’t give a damn whether I like it or not.”

“Yer fella sounds a lot like my ex-husband. Real womanizer, that one. There’s a reason he’s my ex, don’tcha know.”

Crowley nodded with practiced feigned sympathy. He didn’t give a fig about the woman’s ex-husband’s philandering ways, but he wasn’t about to alienate his only ally — not counting Dean, since he couldn’t have said with any certainty whose side Dean was even on anymore.

When Crowley didn’t reply, Stella nodded again. “Well, I’d best be gettin’ back to work. Iffn’ you need somethin’, you just gimme a holler now, ya hear?”

Crowley plastered on a tight smile and nodded so she would go away. There was nothing she could do to help, especially when he already knew what had to be done. It was merely a matter of killing time and doing whatever it took to ensure they didn’t need to evade pursuit on their way out of town. He knew what he had to do, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

He watched as Dean ordered a round of drinks for the ladies, likely buying their time so he could work out which one was the most vulnerable. They should have been cautious around a strange bloke from out of town, but it was a small town, and they wouldn’t have had much in the way of fresh meat to salivate over. Whatever predatory vibes they might have sensed from Dean, he was undeniably easy on the eyes.

Though he wanted nothing more than to step in and interrupt Dean’s determined sharking, Crowley instead carried his fries over to the table in the farthest corner from Dean. Waiting until Stella’s back was turned, he summoned a tumbler and a bottle of Craig from his office. If he was going to be stuck watching for the next few hours, he needed something stronger than a daiquiri.

*

Several hours and half a bottle of Craig later, Crowley picked at a new plate of fries and did his best not to care whether a whole table of women swooned over Dean. If he wanted, Crowley could have won them over himself, he was sure of it. It could have easily been another night for the Flickr album.

A melodic chime announced a new message on his phone. It wasn’t the first of the evening, but his determination to avoid work was outweighed by his desire for any sort of distraction. Crowley tapped his inbox to see one new message from Drew Nealy, received earlier that day, and a whole slew of other messages from his people. Continuing to ignore Hell’s business, he opened Drew Nealy’s message.

“I’m in WI. Let me no when u find them. Long live Abaddon!”

The cursor blinked in the reply box, daring Crowley to type something. Running through the options in his head, only one thing was certain; He needed more time.

“Target acquired. Stand by for further details. Long live Abaddon!”

He pressed send, then poured himself another finger of Scotch. He knew exactly how to get Dean in the same room as Drew Nealy, and as long as no one found out about Crowley’s involvement, it was the least bad option of the miserable bunch.

Tucking his phone back in his pocket, Crowley gave in and looked over at Dean’s table just as he was getting up. Followed by two conventionally pretty blonde girls, Dean walked over to Crowley’s table, hints of a smug smile curving his lips. The ladies trailing him exchanged giggling whispers between coy glances.

“Hey Crowley,” said Dean once he was within conversational range. “Text me the address of that place you called earlier. I’m taking these two out for a spin. Why don’t you go ahead and check us in.” 

Crowley made a noncommittal noise, still considering a reply when Dean turned to leave. He was a couple steps closer to the door when he stopped and added, “Oh, by the way, the chick at the table I was at, the one with the short brown hair? Mid-90s Winona Ryder? She’s had her eyes on you since she got here. Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

Still wearing the flirty smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, Dean collected his admirers and left. It took all of Crowley’s resolve not to say anything. He knew what had to be done for the plan to work and if that meant Dean went off without him to play backseat Twister, so be it.

The young woman Dean had mentioned chose that moment to leave her seat in favour of the table where Crowley sat alone. Wearing a simple little black dress and carrying a matching handbag, she crossed the room with stylish precision, as if everyone was watching (and many of them were). Her heels tapped across the old wood floor, drawing the attention of those who hadn’t already noticed her.

Everything about her screamed confidence — everything except her fragile smile and the eyes that were afraid to meet his. She was the type of person Crowley took a particular delight in corrupting, in slowly wearing away the façade until the person underneath was willing to do whatever he wanted. In short, she was perfectly tailored entertainment. The only trouble was, he wasn’t interested.

It wasn’t that he didn’t find her attractive. Honestly, if someone were to ask him, Crowley would be hard pressed to come up with a body type that repulsed him, and as far as personalities went, he should have already been intrigued. Except…he wasn’t. For all that he watched her every move as she approached him, his only thoughts were about Dean and how long he’d be gone and that little doubt in the back of his head as to whether or not the plan had a hope of success.

Precisely as the woman reached his table, Crowley stood and straightened out the folds in his suit jacket, dismissing the tumbler and half-bottle of Craig back to the desk in his office without bothering to hide its departure.

As expected, the woman stared at the table, frowned, and shook her head. “Wasn’t there—” Dismissing the evidence of her eyes, as most people inevitably did, she visibly retreated back to her performance, plastering on a smile and finally forcing herself to make eye contact. “Well hey there, handsome. The name’s Adeline, and—”

“No thanks, sweetheart,” Crowley interrupted. “I was on my way out.” He gathered his overcoat from the back of the chair and draped it over his arm. “Don’t take it personally, it’s only that someone else has you beat.”

Unwilling to give up so easily, Adeline lifted her chin and stroked her fingertips up and down her thigh. “Whoever she is must be one hell of a woman. Are you sure I can’t tempt to you stay for a drink or two?”

Despite the dark mood that had been threatening him all evening, Crowley smiled. “He is definitely one hell of a something.”

Then, because he had already paid for everything earlier, and because he was tired of pretending, he teleported without bothering to leave the bar. He needed to book a room at the bed and breakfast, then text Dean the address. He only wished he could have seen Adeline’s face after he had gone.

*

Lying on his half of the queen-sized bed, Crowley resisted the urge to try to find a more comfortable position. He had waited in the room for hours until Dean finally arrived, sated and disheveled and somehow more intoxicated than when he left the bar. He had taken one look at the frilly room, given an amused huff, then stripped off his clothes and flopped face-first into bed.

Crowley had thought to sit in the room’s only chair for the night, but Dean apparently had other ideas, patting the available pillow while mumbling into his own, “Get over here, you’re creeping me out.”

While Crowley had expected to spend the night going over his plans to ensure things proceeded smoothly, he wasn’t about to say no to such an invitation. In truth, there was nothing he could have done until morning, whenever Dean decided it was time to leave. Until then, there was no knowing the window of opportunity, meaning there were too many possibilities to account for.

Crowley lay in bed and considered them anyways. If he could imagine it, he worked out a strategy to deal with it, no matter the odds. And as he considered, he came to the conclusion that he needed to act before Dean woke.

When the first rays of sunlight brightened the room, Dean grumbled and rolled over, turning away from the window. While Dean was still in motion, Crowley took that opportunity to retrieve his phone from his pocket. Then, with the screen dimmed and the volume muted, he moved as little as possible while typing a text message to Drew Nealy.

“Winchester. Amherst Junction, WI Gas n’ Sip. B/W 11a-12p. Long live Abaddon.”

He slid the phone back into his pocket as he also finally rolled and shifted on the bed to get comfortable. Whether it worked or not was mainly out of his hands. There was no more need for scheming, only diversions and the more pleasant ways to pass time, and if it came down to it, he could think of plenty of highly entertaining ways to keep them busy.

Propping himself up on one elbow, Crowley watched Dean’s face as he slept unnecessarily. It was so like Dean to insist on human behaviours long after he no longer had any need of them.

Without opening his eyes, Dean grumbled, “If you’re gonna admire me, why don’t you admire my dick up close and personal instead. You woke me up, so you should help me get back to sleep.”

Inwardly, Crowley congratulated himself. Everything was going exactly according to plan.

**Author's Note:**

> This one fought me the entire way through. I started this in January and am just now finishing it at the end of March. Probably because we're getting too close to the other end of canon now. But hey, they have a date with the triplets coming up soon, so there's that!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this. Please feel free to leave me comments, tell me everything or just give me a thumbs up, that's cool too. Comments and kudos in my inbox are literally the fuel that keeps me writing. And if you feel like watching me wrestle with words, you can find me on Tumblr as @thayerkerbasy


End file.
